


A Song of Silk and Power

by VorDresden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: A bunch of one shots that got away from me, All the tyrells are there and a family, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, It's all Leet's fault of course, Marquis never got caught, Very Canon Divergent, Why does only Staniss get magic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VorDresden/pseuds/VorDresden
Summary: I got bored so I scattered a bunch of Brockton Bay capes all over Westeros. Have fun! Because they won't.
Relationships: Who Knows though - Relationship, probably none
Comments: 21
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1 Arya PoV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with Worm I'll be posting simplified explanations of characters powers at the end of the chapters. The first few should be pretty straight forward, but better safe than sorry. If you like the "How the hell does magic work?" that Game of Thrones has going on I suggest you skip that part of the notes. None of the powers should be more out there than the stuff the various magical characters pull out of their hats in the books/show anyway. I'm mostly sticking to street level powers, cool as it would be to have Lung try and out dragon Drogon having humanity that out gunned strips the rest of the conflicts of some meaning.

Arya Stark had grown to enjoy her life in Kings Landing more than she had ever hoped to. Well more specifically she loved her lessons with Syrio and she liked how easy it was to avoid Septa Mordane and her pointless lessons, the Red Keep was, after all, almost as large as Winterfell and filled with old secret passages, labyrinthian corridors that begged to be explored, and (to her secret annoyance) stray cats. It was in pursuit of the latter that she had discovered most of the former. Syrio had told her that a Water Dancer must move as swiftly and purposefully as a cat, and since Arya was going to be the best Water Dancer there had ever been she had to be better than any cat. She had caught most of the Red Keep's many strays but a few still eluded her, including one big bastard of a tomcat, the one eyed cat had clawed and escaped Arya more times than all the other strays combined. Even though she had dedicated almost almost all her time to hunting the black monster he still evaded her, leading her on merry chases through the keep until Arya was exhausted and bleeding, or one of Septa Mordane's minions found her and made her clean herself and play Noble Lady for the rest of the night.

Arya hated those nights, because when she was caught she couldn’t be Arya the Water Dancer, or even just Arya. She had to become Lady Arya Stark, dressed in fine clothes more uncomfortable than the ‘finerary’ she had had to endure back home. The southerners made their women were even stupider clothes than the North did. That wasn’t the worst of being caught though. Once Arya had been stuffed into the restrictive clothing she had to sit through dinners spent with Sansa and her stupid betrothed. The whole time pretending he wasn't a spoiled loathsome toad of a princeling. It had been bad enough when Sansa had just been better at being a Lady, now that Sansa thought she was going to be a Queen she had become even more insufferable. But Arya wouldn't have traded places with her, not for anything. Because Arya was smart, no matter what Sansa and her hens might say, and she noticed things. Syrio had taught her the importance of seeing things as they truly were not what you wanted to see. Arya had seen a lot of The Red Keep, she’d seen that Sansa's Charming Prince was worse company than the big black cat she spent her days hunting. And Arya had seen that the only person more miserable than the King was his awful wife.

No. Sansa was welcome to her dream wedding, to a crown and all that came with it, Arya had her own dreams. Her dreams were the most unexpected joy Arya had found in her time in kings landing, she had worried that the size of the city and the sheer mass of people would have been stifling, and during the day it could be, especially when she couldn't distract herself with Syrio's lessons, or her increasingly intense hunts. She had come close to suffocating under the sheer boredom of it all more than once. But at night, when she dreamed, she found herself far away from the city and it's choking endless list of stupid rules. When she Arya Stark dreamed she was a wolf in more than just name. In fact she was the wolf, she had a pack all her own, a pack that listened to her, respected, even feared her. She knew it was silly for a girl of her age to get so swept up in her dreams, but they felt so very real. Sometimes when she woke in the morning she found herself sniffing around her room, reflexively checking to see if anyone had challenged her territory, before remembering that she was just a girl and not a powerful shewolf at the head of the largest pack she could find. That reflexive urge to make sure her territory hadn't been invaded had gotten worse recently, the wolf that was Arya in her dreams was being challenged, her pack discovering a hard limit to their territory for the first time. It was stressing the shewolf, and what the wolf felt Arya felt. Recently it had gotten so bad that Arya had almost knifed a maid who had surprised her awake one morning. Something had to be done.

Remembering exactly what happened during her wolf dreams was always difficult even though the dreams felt more real than dinners with her sister. Arya guessed it was because girls and shewolfs thought very differently. But near as she could figure another pack had begun pushing its way into her territory. Her pack mates had tried to run the other pack off one day. But without their leader they had failed. The wounds the rival pack had inflicted hadn't impressed the shewolf but Arya had seen that the injuries had been made by a creature bigger even than the shewolf herself and she was the largest of the pack by far. Arya had suspected bears or lions but when she had asked Septa Mordane if bears ever traveled in packs or if there were any lions left in Westeros the Septa had assured her that there were not. 

The handmaid Sister Mordane had saddled her with, some empty headed girl named Jayne or somesuch, was usually easy to slip away from, but tonight Arya simply insisted that she would be retiring early without once trying to slip away to freedom. Waking freedom hardly mattered to Arya tonight, for too long the shewolf and her rival had danced around each other. Arya had observed her rival through his effects on her pack, scented their markings on the territory they claimed, but the shewolf had never laid eyes on the beasts that had so terrified her peak. Tonight that would change, Arya was so excited she feared she would not be able to sleep at all, but she was a clever girl and the strong wine she had snuck two glasses of at dinner was already doing much to tire her body without dulling her enthusiasm.

As master Syrio had said it was the true seeing that had made him First Sword of Bravos. Tonight the shewolf and her freshly recovered pack would face her mysterious rival, it was time for Arya Stark to open her eyes and become the First Fang of Westeros. Even if only in dreams. There were few things Arya found more thrilling than running at the head of the she-wolf's pack, the feeling of grace and power was beyond anything Arya had felt in her waking life. Even in the dark of a cloudy night the skewolf's senses were so sharp that finding footing in the dark forecast was as simple for her as a walk through the garden paths. She and her pack crossed their territory in what felt like no time at all. They crossed miles of dark forests without slowing once.

When they reached the scent markers of the disputed border the shewolf's sharp senses were drawn instantly to a camp fire she communicated her wishes to her pack who melted into the night without a sound.They would spread out, surround her prey and bring them down from all sides. Arya padded silently up to the border of the camps' light, not bothering to hide her approach. She had wondered what it would feel like to fight something her own size, none of her pack or any of the other packs she had routed had been a fair challenge. The shewolf let loose a low rumble of a challenge, as eager for a fight as Arya herself. She was answered with barks of warnings and alarm. The answer did not sound right to the shewolf, too small and pathetic, even Arya found herself surprised. It sounded like nothing more than common dogs not wolves, lions, or bears as she had suspected. A pack of mutts quickly woke from slumber and bunched up around a lone tent, even as four more dogs emerged from the tent.

They were followed by a single person, clothes rumpled from sleep, and unarmed. "Still." The girl barked, and though she looked as wild as the wind she spoke with such utter authority that the shewolf almost obeyed without thought when the feral girl added "Come" And summoned her pack of dogs to her. Arya felt a strange instant kinship to this girl. The girl had auburn hair like Sansa's though it was short for a woman, and a thousand times messier. She was unattractive, like Arya herself, built stocky with more muscle on one arm than Sansa likely had on her whole body. This, she thought, is what she had always secretly wanted Sansa to be. A sister in more than blood. The girl reached down to touch her dogs and instantly Arya saw why this woman could live alone and unbothered in the most dangerous stretch of woods south of the Wall. The girl was a witch.

Her magic was grotesque, yet neither the shewolf nor Arya could look away. Even as they heard several of their pack yip and fall back in alarm. That single touch from the Cur Witch caused great changes in the dogs. They grew, rapidly, and beyond the size any dog could hope to reach. And they kept growing, their skin split and their hide became covered in patches of rough skin, where the skin did not grow the raw muscle was exposed. Perhaps most disturbing spurs of bone jutted from their backs at irregular intervals, by the time the dogs stopped growing they were unrecognizable as such. Big as bears each and every one of them, several were larger still. Arya imagined that if the Stranger bred hunting hounds they would look like this.

The last of the mutts to change was, to Arya’s surprise and the shewolf’s ire, no mutt at all, but a young wolf. A heavy chain around it’s throat like a collar and leash. It’s growth was different from the others, smoother, less grotesque, and faster. And suddenly despite all her size the shewolf was no longer the largest thing on four legs, the shewolf looked at the massive panting monsters and for the first time since Arya started dreaming her, felt fear. But the great beasts did not leap into the fight, though they clearly wanted to. They remained, still, where the witch had ordered them upon first exiting the tent.

The girl, now at the front of a pack of beasts each and everyone of which was as large as the wagons of supplies that had followed and fed the royal procession on their long trek from Winterfel to Kings Landing, began to approach the shewolf directly. The wolf of Arya knew that the girl intended no violence, the way she moved spoke of curiosity and was utterly lacking in any challenge. But Arya the girl had learned already that calm words and peaceful appearances were not to be trusted this far South. Arya met the girl's eyes directly and she felt the tension spike through both packs at the challenge but neither girl backed down. Eventually the witch spoke "You're no ordinary wolf are you?" Abruptly the witch's stance relaxed and she sat calmly before the huge she wolf and spoke “I'm no ordinary girl." she extended her hands halfway closing the distance between herself and the wolf's snout before continuing “My name is Bitch.'' Arya felt that was a silly name for a witch but the older girl had spoken it with the self assured pride that Syrio used when he spoke of being First Sword of Bravos. Like it was no insult but a title. Like it had been earned through battle.

The girl continued pointing at each dog in turn “This, is Brutus, Judas, Angelica, Rollo, Bentley.” She paused as she reached the wolf pup, now tall as a horse. “And Bastard. The others I rescued, but Bastard I’ve had since he could walk.” Arya stared, first at the witch, then at Bastard noting that she too had a bastard she loved, and finally at the witch’s our stretched hand. The invitation was explicit and intriguing.

Arya could not help but wonder, if it made common mutts that formidable what would it do for a wolf as strong and powerful as herself? She did not wonder for long before she pawed forward and let her head touch the witch’s offered hand.

That morning Arya Stark awoke still feeling the thrum of Bitch’s magic echoing in her limbs. She was stronger and faster than ever before, she was sure. Even though she noticed no physical changes, and especially none that had shown on the dogs and wolves. Still she felt incredible. An astute observer, may have wondered what had happened to the patchwork of small cuts and bruises that had covered Arya the night before. Arya was sure Syrio had noticed but said nothing, merely given her her lessons and sent her to hunt her last cat. When she returned bloodied but victorious not three hours later he was surprised and proud, though not as surprised or proud as Arya herself felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's the end of the first chapter. There's a second Arya/Bitch chapter that I already have written. So expect that later on. Below is an explanation of what Bitch's parahuman ability actually does if you're curious. If you prefer the mystique of Magic Is Weird then jump right past it.
> 
> Rachel aka Bitch is a parahuman with the ability to...well grossly mutate and ramp up the physical stats of canines she uses her powers on. The transformation eventually fades away unless Bitch is around to keep it up, and the dogs actually heal a little while they're transformed. She has no extra control over canines but she does have a keen understanding of canine body language and psychology, and ensures that the dogs she powers up are extremely well trained. Bit of a Worm spoiler, but her power actually works better on wolves than it does dogs. It does not, normally, do anything to humans. Magic Is Weird like that.


	2. Chapter 2 Brian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the previous chapter this one is from the point of view of one of the poor schmucks from Brockton Bay that got dumped into the middle of Westeros' nonsense.
> 
> Parts of this chapter are lifted word for word from the same scene in the show, as that was easier to check and yoink than the book text was.

Keeping a low profile had been a fool's errand from the very beginning. L33t had apparently found and shoved Brian into a world that had, as far as he could tell, nobody with a skin tone darker than tan. Even once he'd changed from his costume into some clothes he had appropriated from some ambitious bandits that tried to jump him, it seemed his dark skin was enough to draw stares from the locals. But the gazes he was drawing weren’t hateful just curious. It was a new feeling, but when you grow up black in the city with the highest number of superpowered neo-nazis on the continent you learned quickly how to gauge the amount of hate behind someone's stare, and you learned it fast. 

Still even if Brain's skin tone and clothes hadn't drawn attention to him right away he suspected his size would have. It's not that Brian was especially tall for a man, but everyone he'd run across in "The Riverlands" seemed shorter and slighter than he was used to. In fact he was beginning to suspect that many, if not all, of the people he'd interacted with had been malnourished while they were growing up. It would fit with everything else he knew about the world so far, primitive technology and an out right feudal governing system, if the way people had been calling him Ser and Lord, was any indication. He rounded a bend in the Kingsroad and saw an inn far in the distance. His stomach growled loudly when the smell of baking bread hit his nose a second later. And he hurried on his way towards the first building he’d yet seen with more than a single story

A brief conversation with the innkeeper dampened his mood as he discovered that the money he had on him taken from bandits, who had seen he was unarmed and assumed him easy prey, was only enough to buy dinner, a place near the hearth, and breakfast the next morning. Brian was most of the way through the dinner, bland and unsatisfying by his standards, when the door was flung open and a well dressed man, clearly afflicted with dwarfism strode confidently through the inn and claimed a table for himself and the pair of guards he had with him. The guards were heavily armored, with crimson cloaks and swords on their belts. Brian sized them up out of habit and quickly decided that if they made trouble the only chance he'd have at coming out on top would be to use his power early, and that wasn't something that he was eager to do in front of this many probably superstitious witnesses. Even knowing his plan was doomed to fail Brian still tried his best to keep his head down and draw no undue attention to himself.

But sure enough after drinking two or three cups of wine the little man with the guards went looking for amusement, spotted Brian, and quickly crossed the room to seat himself at Brian's formally empty table, Brian tried to keep his scowl to himself, of course the rich fucker wanted some one on one time with the weirdest guy in the room. And even though Brian had stashed his motorcycle leathers and helmet which comprised his home made costume, in the little pack he’d 'found' he stuck out like a sore thumb.

"My. My" The man began without preamble "You sure are far from home what brings a man as young as yourself so far north?"

Rather than struggle to find an answer to the little man's question, the truth 'a video game obsessed d-rate villain fucked something up and now I'm stuck here.' Likely wouldn't satisfy so Brian snorted and said "Hah, far from home, you have no idea." 

He had intended it as a dismissal but the dwarf's mismatched eyes sparked at the challenge and he said "Well, I like to think of myself as something of a learned man." He smirked before continuing "Tell you what, you tell me where you're from, and I'll tell you how long it would take to travel there. If I'm wrong..." He clicked a single golden coin onto the table "It's all yours and I’ll leave you alone." Before Brian could open his mouth the cocky little guy added "But when I'm right that coin goes to the innkeeper and we sit and drink till it's all spent.”

Brian might have felt bad for taking the guy's money like this but he was flat broke and had no earthly idea how to make any money aside from banditry. He wasn't that desperate yet.

"Fine." He finally said "But before I take your money at least tell me your name, I can't keep thinking of you as 'the rich little guy' in my head forever."

That it seemed to catch him off guard in a big way. Brian heard him mutter "You really are new around here." Before Brian could process that his guest continued. “I am Tyrion Lannister. But we’re about to share a golden dragon worth of fine, or at least passable, Dorninsh Red so Tyrion will do just fine.”

"Brian Laborn, but you can just call me Brian." Something about his introduction caught Tyrion off guard. Or maybe it was the lack of a reaction to Tyrion’s name that had thrown him off. Oh hell, Brian figured that The Lannisters might be one of the Big Players around here. Hopefully the local nobility here was less eager to turn to violence over displays of disrespect than they were back in The Bay. Not that Brockton Bay had nobility traditionally speaking, but you wouldn’t know it after a look at how Lung, Marquis, and Kaiser carried themselves and treated those around them. Hell two of them had taken old noble positions as their cape name, and Brian was pretty sure the other was just 'Dragon' in another language.

Thankfully Tyrion seemed to shrug it off quickly and said "Back to our little wager, where're you from Brian Laboun?"

''Brockton Bay." Brian answered simply Tyrion was quiet for a while so Brian added “Might know it as the Bay of Bones?” Marquis liked to push that name even though he was far from the only player in the Bay. Between the Boat Graveyard, the casualties from gang wars, and the alliteration the name had gained more traction than a local gang leader’s preferred term usually got.

After a short frustrated huff Tyrion picked up the coin and tossed it to Brian who caught it deftly "Huh, I've never even heard of that town before, maybe our maps of Southros could use an update. You wouldn't be trying to cheat out little game would you?" The last was said in jest but Brian could see the sharp intelligence behind the noble's eyes searching Brian's face for any tells.

Brian shrugged and said "I guess I'm just from farther out of town than you thought." As if that wasn't the biggest understatement of the year.

Brian had been worried the lord wouldn't believe him, and might have even gotten belligerent after he lost but, Tyrion seemed invigorated by the mystery, and was digging in his purse presumably for the stakes for another 'game' when the door opened again and a pair of travel worn people entered the already crowded inn. The first was a tall thin woman, with most of her face covered by a shawl pulled up over her head. The man was a good deal older, and more heavyset but, more importantly, he was clad in heavier armor than anyone Brian had seen since L33t had dumped him in this backwater. Brian didn’t know much about swords, but the sheath that hung from his hip showed far more wear that the Lannister guards did. He suspected the old man had used his sword more than the two young guards combined.

The woman head down to better obscure her face, or perhaps shield it from the chill of the road, made her way to a nearby table, the man made his to the innkeeper and was about to enquire about rooms when Brian saw recognition spark in Tyrion's eyes and he rose from his seat and said “Lady Stark I was saddened to miss you at Winterfeld" Evidently the woman was somewhat important as her name silenced the whole inn, save for a few respectful mummers of Lady Stark from the staff and patrons alike.

In response the woman, Lady Stark presumably, stood and abandoned her disguise. She held herself with a practiced poise and spoke in a voice that commanded the attention and eyes of everyone in the in. "I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I stayed here.” Having claimed the room she began to address the individual patrons. “You, sir, is that the black bat of Harenhall I see embroidered on your coat?"

The man she had addressed stood and answered "It is milady"

She nodded and continued still speaking to him even as her eyes scanned the room. "And is Lady Whent a True and Honest friend to my, father Lord Hoster Tully of Riverun?"

Judging by the way Tyrion's eyes narrowed he was as confused by Lady Stark's sudden speech as Brian was. Not a local custom then. "She is, maam." The man replied with some measure of pride.

Catelyn turned to another man without pause saying. "The red stallion was always a welcome sight at Riverun, my father counts Jonas Bracken amongst his oldest and most loyal bannerman!'

The man's whole table stood and he replied "Our Lord is honored by his trust.”

"I envy your father all his fine friends Lady Stark." Tyrion interjected confusion plain in his voice." But I don't quite see the purpose of this."

Lady Stark continued as if Tyrion had never spoken. "I know your sigil as well se ser, the Twin Towers of Frey. How fares your lord?" Her casual dismissal deepened the growing unease Brian felt. She was playing up her rep, reminding everyone how important she was. There was no way this would end well.

“Lord Walder is well my Lady. He has requested your father's presence for his fiftieth nameday. He intends to take another wife." Tyrion made a small sound of amusement at that, but Brian had finally put his finger on the source of his unease. Catlin was working the room, building, or tapping into alliances to gather support, it reminded Brian of Kaiser about to make a play for power during the ABB alliance.

Catlin was admittedly less smooth than Kaiser had been, for she paused here for what felt like forever glancing between Tyrion and a few of the men she had spoken to. "This man," Catlin began, true emotion suffusing her voice for the first time that night. Rage lashed the cadence of her words to a faster tempo. "Came into my house as a guest, and there conspired to murder my son! A boy of ten. In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve. I call upon you to seize him, and help me return him to Winterfell to await the King's Justice."

Her call to action had an immediate and disturbing effect, every man at every table Catlyn had addressed, and most every patron aside leapt to their feet and drew steel.

Brian was briefly worried that he was about to find himself in the middle of a melee between two sword wielding gangs. But then he noticed that every single blade was, without exception, pointed at a very confused but surrendering Tyrion Lannister. The Lannister guards hadn't even drawn their own blades. Though their hands hovered near the grips nervously. Tyrion looked completely caught off guard and mounted no verbal defense. Despite that Brian was having a hard time believing that Tyron was guilty, Brian's experience in Brockton Bay's cape scene meant that he had dealt with more than his fair share of killers. Hell he had even allied with a disturbing number of them. But of all those killers, the only one Brian could see cheerfully greeting the mother of a kid they murdered was Bakuda, the Mad Bomber. Tyrion Lannister was no Bakuda, nor someone that seemed accustomed to violence at all.

More than that though, Brian was didn’t believe for a second that The King’s Justice would at any point resemble a fair trial. If that was the case, Brian was not going to sit around and let an innocent man die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing supernatural happened this chapter so you get no explanations!
> 
> As always if you have any notes or corrections, comments or complaints, let me know and I'll either fix them, or tell you why I stick by what I wrote.


	3. Chapter 3 Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain can't keep the spelling of Catelyn's name straight I think I caught all seven different incorrect spellings, but let me know if I missed one.
> 
> Enjoy Tyrion dealing with Powers Bullshit.

Loathe as he was to admit it Catelyn Stark was more clever than she had initially appeared. Though she had declared her intention to take Tyrion North to her husband’s lands, currently ruled by her eldest son while Lord Stark was serving as Robert’s Hand, they were traveling not North but towards the mountainous lands where her sister Lysa Arryn currently ruled as Regent for her young son. The recent death of Jon Arryn had left the boy in charge of responsibilities no child could handle.

This was terrible news for two reasons, the first was that any forces his father Tywin Lannister sent out rescue him would have been headed in the wrong direction. The second, and more pressing, was that Lady Stark was more clever than she was informed. Their group had been assaulted on the road by some terrifyingly well armed mountain clansmen. The savage attack had almost overwhelmed Lady Stark's men when the mountain road had been blanketed by an impossible cloud of smoke so dark and smothering that until the darkness had vanished, blown away by the mountain's wind as suddenly as it had appeared, Tyrion truly thought he had died and been claimed by the Stranger.

The damned clansmen had been caught in the cloud as well and, to his surprise, been even more deeply disturbed, for as soon as the sun and sound had returned they had fled, scattering into the woods like rabbits. Lady Stark had looked as frightened as Tyrion felt, but that odd young man with the dark skin who Tyrion had shared drinks with the night it had all gone to shit, had been there, making sure they'd not been hurt by the odd darkness or in the attack. The boy, Brian, had been nowhere near himself and Catelyn before the stifling sudden night had hit, but as soon as light and noise had returned he had been there helping them to their feet. When pressed on how he’d found them saying merely that his father had insisted he learn to move and fight blind, before excusing himself to tend the wounded. Yet another surprise from the lad, for he had surprising skill for one his age. The boy was an enigma Tyrion could ill afford to dedicate time and thought to now, as Lady Stark's plan had hit its second snag. One most worrying and dangerous for Tyrion. Lysa Arryn, Lady Starks sister, and ruler of everything in several miles was utterly mad. When Tyrion had said he had no knowledge of the crimes he was accused of she had thrown him in what she called a sky cell, and all but told him the only freedom he'd ever know was if he jumped.

The sky cells were a remarkable bit of psychological torture, one which Tyrion would prefer he had never learned of. The cells had a slanted floor and three walls. The fourth wall of the cell was absent entirely, there were no bars or anything of the sort separating him from the exterior of the Eyerie, and all the ‘freedom’ it offered, though Tyion desperately wished there was. The Eyrie was built atop a mountain, the lower floors carved from the stone of the mountains peak itself. And the sky cells faced the steepest drop the Eyrie had to offer. Every gust of wind threatened to throw Tyriom from his cell to be dashed on the cliffs below. The floor's slant made sleep itself a terrifying prospect, as one roll could see him falling to his death. Morbidly he wondered what would happen if he were to fall while sleeping, would wake once he began to fall or if he would simply cease? Though Tyrion was truly innocent of the charges levied against him the mad Lady Ayrn to and her brat of a whelp had already decided his guilt, and his punishment. He had but one chance to avoid death at the hands of these fools. Tyrion steeled himself, stood and began pounding the door for the galore.  
* * * * *  
His 'confession' and demand for trial by combat had not gone how he hoped. Though bound by law to accept his demand for trial by combat the Aryn bitch had set the date of this trial for the next morning. Now rather than betting his life on his brother's genius with a blade, his life was in the hands of a common sellsword Tyrion had hardly spoken to. The man, Bronn, was fit to be sure, and seemed experienced enough at bloodletting. But Lady Arryn's man was as well, and the young man had the title of knight. His training would surely be better, he was almost half a foot taller than Tyron's man Bronn, and almost half Bronn’s age. Making matters worse the knight had been wearing solid well crafted plate while Bronn wore only leather armor. Were it his brother Tyrion would have been unconcerned, Jamie took to swordplay with the same grace and ease as Tyrin took to reading. But those were long odds for anyone less gifted than his brother and this was a bet Tyrion could not afford to lose.

Tonight promised to be the most stressful since his capture. He was debating the merits of attempting sleep versus staying awake so as not to miss any of his, evidently few, remaining hours of life when there was a heavy thud at the door to his sky cell. He turned to look and saw black oily smoke leaking through the gap between the door and the floor of his cell. The lock clicked ominously open and through the door entered a broad figure billowing smoke. Tyrion found it impossible to tell where the figure's body stopped and the smoke began. Nor could Tyrion see anything through the still open door so thick was the inky dark cloud. The figure whatever storybook evil made flesh that it was, and wasn't Tyrion regretting teasing Ned stark's bastard now, began to speak. It's voice was inhuman, it echoed and grated on itself, but Tyson still felt a twinge of familiarity beneath all the monstrosity. "Tyrion Lannister you stand accused of a vile crime." the imposing and shifting form stepped closer, and the darkness moved with him, seemingly consuming the wall the door was set into. "Speak truthfully, I'm afraid this may be the most fair trial you will ever get. What part did you have in the plot to murder Brandon stark as he lay crippled in his bed?"

“None!" Tyrion could not help but yell, gods he sounded panicked even to his own ears. “I swear by all the gods. I bear the boy no ill will! Seven Hells when last I saw him I gave his smith some plans for a modified saddle so the poor boy could ride again!”  
Tyrion could make nothing of the figure's emotions, if indeed it had any, through the obscuring darkness.He forged onward nonetheless. "What grudge could I possibly bear a child of ten? Anything a mind that young could think to say I have heard a thousand times worse. What motive could I have to kill a crippled second son? Look at me!” Tyrion implored, look past my misshapen features and see me! “If anything I see myself in the boy. l know well what it is like to dream of knighthood only to be cursed with a body utterly incapable of matching dream to reality."

Emotionally spent for the moment Tyrion fell silent. He could feel the apparition’s gaze like a physical weight, how heavy would it’s judgement be? Then to his utter surprise the void of smoke that had been obscuring the form of the creature faded slowly into nothing until he could make out a familiar face, though one now burdened with grim weariness "Brian? By the seven what… what the…” Tyrion willed his brain to get past the thought ‘That was Brian all along?’ But, for the second time in as many weeks Tyrion found himself speechless. The boy had seemed oddly competent and out of place sure, but nothing at all like the unearthly interrogator whose space he was occupying.

Brian sighed "It's a long story, one I don't really understand myself.” He shook his head as if clearing the thought then returned his attention to Tyrion. “Did you mean what you said earlier? You have a reputation for impish cleverness. But that all stuck me as true.”

“Yes! Of course." Tyron sighed, why did everyone find it so easy to believe he would want that boy dead? ''The stark boy is just a child, even if I'd had some grudge against his family before all this idiocy he would have been innocent of it. By the Father's Justice Brian do you really think I would so callously murder a child?" see past my monstrous exterior Tyrion please! Judge my mind and not my body.

Brian smiled then his teeth impossibly white in the dark night. "Honestly I never thought you did, but I had to be sure. Especially when I saw what passes for justice in this backasswords place. I mean fucking hell Trial by combat? Not even the Merchants are that fucked up."

"'I'm sorry to disappoint but unless you're planning to break me out, or you've smuggled a mile of rope under that odd leather armor I'm afraid your judgement doesn’t change much. The trial is still in the morning, and I somehow doubt they’ll call the whole thing off because you found me innocent."

"Not guilty" Brian said as if on reflex then added "Never mind. Yes I'm here to break you out.”

"Wonderful!” The sooner Tyrion found himself on level ground the better. “I take it you have a plan to deal with the guards?"

"Yep." Brian's grin flashed again. "we're going to walk right past them."

This did not inspire confidence in Tyrion but still "Better than letting that brat throw me off a cliff and getting Bronn killed as well.''

"Ahh" Brian said "speaking of." with a gesture the blackness over the doorway vanished and Tyrion saw Bronn leaning against the wall of the hallway keeping watch. "We're taking him with us, he agreed to be your  
champion, I have a feeling it would go poorly for him if you escaped into the night and left him behind."

"A feeling I share. "Tyrion said "He agreed to risk his life for me, and a Lannister always pays his debts. That goes for you too young Brian.'' Tyrion crossed the room to shake hands with the mercenary who handed over Tyrion's travel cloak and purse. "Bronn good to see you..''

“Tyrion." Bronn drawled '''You certainly make interesting friends."

Brian cleared his throat then said "Bronn says he knows the way out of here so we're going to follow him through this insane maze of a castle. If anyone tries to stop us get low and try not to move too much I'll take care of them.''

"Sure you don't want back up?" Bronn asked "On a blade at least? I’d rather not have to fight my way out alone because you’re unprepared as a goat herder facing a cavalry charge."

Brian grimaced “No. I don't want to kill anyone. Not if I don't have to. Besides unless they've got a cape or two stashed around here somewhere I should be able to handle anybody they can throw at me."

Bronn snorted "Rich fucks like these, probably have a wardrobe or two full of them."  
Fear flashed in Brian's eyes for the first time since Tyrion had met him ”What?” he exclaimed then collected himself "Oh the clothes, no I meant someone like me, someone with powers."

Tyrion decided that all of this was a tangle of crazy that he could untie at a later date. Preferably with a bottle or three of wine and a friendly face or two beside him. He just nodded to Bronn and said “Lead the way.”

Tyrion quickly discovered the source of Brian’s confidence. It turned out the boy was somehow the source and master of the dark smoke that had swamped the mountain cIan's attack, and obscured his form when he had interrogated Tyrion. The smoke smothered sound as well as light and so, with a small carpet of the the stuff at their feet the three were able to step silently as cats through the castle in utter silence. Three times they came across armed and armored guards, and each time Brian would cover the room in darkness and silence.

When light and sand returned it always revealed the same scene, Brian kneeling near a downed guard, two fingers pressed to the guard or guards neck. Brian suffered only a single cut, a shallow one across his cheek after he'd strode into his cloud of void unarmed to face three armed sentries.

Tyrion had managed to convince him to take up a shield after that. The young man had muttered something about not being used to playing for keeps like this, which only deepened Tyson's curiosity about this Brockton Bay Brian claimed to hail from. Brian was clearly skilled with his fists, even fighting blind opponents his own size Tyson would have taken far longer to subdue them than Brian had been taking. The man had a gift for taking out his opponents without crippling them or beating them within an inch of their life. Even Bronn seemed impressed though he made several comments about how much faster this would all go with a knife instead of knuckles.

Under cover of a cloudy night, and Brian's own deeper darkness Tyrion, Bronn, and Brian stole a trio of horses and disappeared into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to keep these loosely linked short stories in the proper canonical time line which is why this came before the Arya follow up chapter.
> 
> Skip the rest of the note if you wish to preserve any innocence you yet have. Cause spooky stuff happened this chapter and that means my nerdy ass wants to explain it.
> 
> Brian aka Grue has the ability to create what's usually called zones of darkness, however that tends to undersell what his power is capable of. His power create areas where normal observation is difficult. Visible Light, Sound Waves, even radio and infrared vision are disrupted. It also messes with your sense of touch though much less so than any of the other senses it effects. Brian himself can see and hear perfectly fine in his darkness, he can tell what areas are covered and what aren't but it has no negative effects on his perception. I'd compare it to wearing old fashioned 3D glasses with the colored lenses, but even that is more obstructive than I believe his power is. There are ways around the sensory black out that Brian creates, they're explored heavily in canon, but well nobody here has any of those counter measures. So effectively you're fighting blind and deaf against a guy with eclectic martial arts skills.


	4. Chapter 4 Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I wasn't great at spelling Catelyn's name? Well buckle up cause this chapter is from her PoV.
> 
> It's a short one I think, but it was very fun to write because the Worm character I'm dropping in here is one of the few that would have fun with the situation. Which says something unkind about their mental health...

"My lady, I am afraid we cannot let you into your son's tent, as it is being used for a war council at the moment." The guard, Catelyn reminded herself, was merely doing as instructed, it was important to prevent people from wandering into or spying on the critical discussions being held just beyond the tent flap. But she was Catelyn Stark and this young soldier had neither the spine nor authority to dictate where she could or could not go.

"I don't care if the tent is being used to fight the war itself, my son has started a war and I will have words with him." Cat's voice came out sharper than intended, the young man blanched and made no effort to stop her as she walked into the tent.

A cold dryly amused voice was the first to greet her “A war your son started eh Lady stark? And here I thought the Lannisters had started the war after you abducted their little heir." The voice was Roose's yet the contempt and mockery more overt than she expected even of him. Robb's voice cut off her reply before she’d taken the breath to voice it. 

''Enough, the war was started when the Lannister bastard Jeffery stole the throne and named Father traitor for speaking the truth."

"Lannister bastard?" Catelyn asked

''Oh you didn't hear?" This voice was one Cat did not recognize, nor did her eyes recognize the boy. He was tall and thin, short on muscle, his hair reminded her infuriatingly of Jon Snow's. The boy was no older than Robb but his voice oozed and slithered with self satisfied sadism. “Your husband, while acting as Hand to the King, made a shocking discovery! And I don't just mean that he basic genetics. He looked at the ancestry of the Baratheons and found generations of black haired baby Baratheons, suddenly ending with our golden haired overlords. Only our King Bobby B wasn't the faithful sort. It seems he fathered more than a dozen bastards in his day.” The pale boy’s smile scythed across his face as he added. “Would you care to guess what color hair crowned the heads of our late lamented King's bastards?"

Catelyn saw the point the arrogant boy was driving her to "Black."

The boy’s voice evoked the purr of a cat with a crippled mouse. "Correct in every instance but three."

"Joffery, Tommen, and Marcylla all have the golden hair of their mother..." A pit deep as the void between stars opened in her belly. She had left her girls in Kings Landing. Left Sansa with Joffery, whose father could not be Robert. Revulsion filled the void in her gut and it must have shown on her face for the young boy seated with Roose began to chortle "Ahh dawn arrives at last!”

"Enough'." Robb snapped "mind your tongue Alec; and Roose if you cannot keep a leash on your dog don't bring him."

Roose growled '"The Leash is well in hand." And glared coldly at the boy Alec, who seemed utterly unconcerned. Catelyn had no idea who this Alec could be, another of Roose's bastards? But why bring the boy along on campaign, Roose was a proud man, and one who Cat had always found emotionally cold and distant as the Wall. If it was not sentiment that saw the boy brought on campaign then... perhaps Roose was grooming the boy to be his heir? A ward would not be allowed to sit on so important a council, as Cat saw that every major banner pledged to her husband was assembled here. From the Manderlys to Bear Island the North had rallied behind her son. If she weren't so terrified she would have been proud.

“Tell me we have a plan beyond kick the bastards from the throne! They have your sisters Robb! Sansa may have been protected by her engagement to Joffery but not if you name him a bastard usurper." Cat's worries spilled from her mouth despite her highborn audience.

It was Robb who spoke to calm her "They can do nothing to than girls, not if they hope to sue for peace.”

"And what if they decide they don't want peace? You would risk the lives of your sisters on a bet that the north can scare the Crown into suing for peace despite decrying their legitimacy?"

The Great Jon barked a laugh at this, "If the Lanisters decide to make a fight of this we'll show er how hard the North breeds her men!” There was a cheer through the tent at this after which the Great John turned Maeg Mormort and added “and her women!” Another boisterous cheer.

Catelyn was aghast at the sentiment. Ned's bannerman were truly willing to risk the life of their liege lord and that of his daughters on the outcome of a few battles, just because they thought they were hard? “Bred strong or not numbers matter, even with the support of the Riverlands we are but two kingdoms, and two of the least populous at that.”

"We are not," Robb spoke, his voice sharper than she had ever heard it, Grey wind's low rumbling growl somehow adding to the clarity of Robb's words. “Just two kingdoms against the other Five Mother. Both Stannis and Renly have called their banners. Already the Tyrells have called theirs in support of Renly's claim. Married their girl Margery to him. The Vale and Dorne have yet to declare their loyalties, though we have heard word from Dorne in full support of the logic of Father's claim, if not the war it stirs."

“The Iron Islands have taken this opportunity to return to their reaving ways, and currently plunder the Lannister coast line. Which kingdom stands alone now Mother?" Cat was speechless, she was loathe to underestimate Tywin, she had not been born yet when he had slaughtered the Reynes but she was old enough to have grown up while the memory was fresh in everyone’s minds, and that damn song was the forbidden bit of lore that young people sought to shock their friends and spite their caretakers. Even so she was forced to admit that the Lannisters faced long odds. Though Robb had likely assumed this would be taken as reassurance the dire odds the Lannisters now faced only deepened her worry for her husband and her girls. A cornered rat would strike at any perceived weakness heedless of the wisdom of the fight. Robb broke her introspection once more, saying "And mother, it is not the Riverlands that ride to our aid, but we to theirs. The Mountain and a force of Lannister troops have been pillaging and burning the Riverlands since before the Lannisters named Father traitor."

The small John rumbled assent with amusement "Though I hear their progress has slowed since they angered some wood witch." This rumor was dismissed out of hand as it deserved. Base superstition had no place in the war councils of any competent leader. Which, to her pride and horror, Robb seemed be becoming. Though he was much too young to bear such a burden. But, she reflected, how old had Ned been when he'd rode south in response to his own father's abuse at the hands of an unfit King.

On the heels of that realization Robb dismissed her and Roose's rude boy, Alec, with orders that he see her appropriately settled into the camp. This task the boy quickly passed on to one of the of the dozen or more minor lords who had not rated a seat  
in Robb’s council. He spoke to her but once before sauntering off into the night, his grin the sickly sweet kind she remembered from the courtly games of her childhood, the kind where you knew that the person was smiling at you not with you."Don't worry Mlady, the only northern noble publicly declaring the young royals the bastard off spring of treasonous incest is your dear hubby! We much more simply claim to want to murder them for imprisoning Robb's dear dad, killing everyone he brought south with him, holding your daughters hostage; and war crimeing their way across your birthland. I'm sure all of that will make for a much easier peace process than all this sordid talk of treasonous twencest that has the rest of Westeros all a tizzy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get no explanation of Alec because there is no explaining Alec. Though I will say two things 1) He was using his power throughout the whole chapter. 2) Sucks to suck Roose!


	5. Chapter 5 Taylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's right Taylor is here! Not much else to say but if you get freaked out by bugs maybe skip this one eh?

There was a difference Taylor reflected, and not for the first time, between war and a gang war. The gang wars of Brockton Bay had been quite terrifying things to live through. Kids she'd known for years would disappear from class, because they'd taken up drugs, or their families skin tones didn't match the new 'acceptable’ after a few blocks shifted hands, sometimes a kid would miss a day of class only to show up on the news as just another casualty or suspect in a gang or race related murder. But even having lived her whole life in Brockton Bay, until she had gotten her powers, she had never personally seen more than the occasional brawls between the wannabe gangsters at school. The gang wars of Brockton Bay for all that they had shaped her world had never directly affected her.

But the violence of a real war, at least war the way the Noble House Lannister fought, was omnipresent.

Even Bakula at the height of her insane bid to rule a city through fear hardly compared. Everywhere Taylor went had been tainted by the war. All the boys her age or older had been called to take up arms. Called or press ganged. It left even the 'untouched' towns feeling bare and empty. The small town hamlets and farmsteads that had the misfortune to draw the attention of "the mountain and his men" would haunt her nightmares for years to come. At first the sheer scale of the violence had beggared belief, then she had learned that half the continent had been called to war. She should have known better, should have looked at the history of conflicts on earth-Bet, learned the lessons of her own history before expecting this new world to be any better, but she had looked at the intensity and scale of the violence against civilians and had assumed that she'd been dropped in the midst of some crusade, or idiotic race war. Not this petty rampage of small men gone mad with power. She needed to focus, distraction could get her or worse innocents killed. She stilled her thoughts, shoved her rage into her swarm, and used the cacophony to amplify her voice. When she spoke like this her words echoed by the clicks and more buzzing of a thousand thousand insects her voice was unrecognizable as that of a fifteen year old girl, even to herself she no longer sounded like Taylor. It made this easier.

“Gregor Clegene!” cried a million furious bodies as bugs and bees and spiders billowed out of the tree line surrounding the camp forming a living speaking wall of life. "You stand accused of war crimes against the civilian population of the Riverlands." Whatever terror her sudden appearance in their camp had created faded quickly to mere fear as she stepped into view. A few chuckles flowed from the leaders of this merry little band of murderers. Though mutters of "witch” were still the most prevalent.

Gregor Clegene, known as The Mounties that Rides, and Tywin Lannister's Dog, stood to face her. He was a huge man, large enough that Taylor had been worried he may have had a Brute power. But if he did, and Taylor doubted it, his durability was merely human. Taylor had sent bugs to bite and prod at him before showing her face, and had found him no tougher than the average man. Less so even once she'd discovered and disrupted his opium habit. "War crimes?" The big man had asked lazily as though tasting the word before dismissing it with a snort. "Little witch. What power do you think you hold here? I am no farm wife to be cowed by tricks."

He began to advance on her drawing a sword as large as she was. When he saw that she held her ground he sneered. "Die a good death little witch, or I'll beat you bloody and leave you to entertain the men until they tire of you." His final words had an echoing quality to them as he had donned his helmet midway through his speech. The threat made her blood boil. the eager anticipatory laughter from the Mountain's men almost drove her to kill him where he stood. But she held back. There was a cruelty to how gangs and bullies recruited their foot soldiers and there were bound to be young men and boys in this monster's host that followed only out of fear of what he and his ilk would do if they spurred his call to violence. The corpses she had found strung up on various roadways with signs of “Coward' or 'Deserter' nailed to their chests had been proof enough of that. Those relative innocents cowed by threats deserved to see her demonstration, learn that Strength of Arms and money enough to purchase armor were no longer enough to protect jumped up aristocrats from the consequences of their vile deeds.

Taylor dispersed the mass of her swarm that usually shrouded her body, not entirely, just enough to ensure that all could see the coming lesson. The massive plague of bugs still hung around the camp like a roiling curtain, she directed her swarm to mark and begin trapping all those who had laughed at the mountain's offer to rape her. Her power was nothing if not efficient, and all of this was accomplished before the Martian had taken two steps. She checked again that she had bugs on every joint of everyone present and used a sliver of her attention to track their position and movement. Then she called a small swarm around herself, to obscure her movements in case this Gregor was faster than expected.

He closed on her, devouring the space between them with great strides then aimed a massive cut at her. Even with her spider silk armor the blow likely would have killed her from the sheer force behind the sword, but with bugs on his every limb her power gave her a perfect understanding of his movements even as he made them so Taylor easily sidestepped his wide cut and spoke with her I swarm voice again "How do you plead?"

"I do not plead!” The Mountain roared. "I demand trial by combat little witch." He attempted to kill her twice as he spoke. But her swarm warned her of both with plenty of time to get out of the way. "Let us see who the gods favor." His men laughed at that and Taylor began to fight back.

Though her cape career had been short, it had been especially brutal, and she had learned quickly that her power was not strong enough to win fair fights. It had seemed as though everyone in the Bay had possessed stronger, scarier powers than her own. She had learned quickly the value of intimidation, and more importantly the benefits of fighting dirty. Her power showed her as the mountain prepared another swipe Taylor wasn’t sure if it was just his size or her experience fighting combat thinkers, but to her swarm sense he moved almost in slow motion. Taylor ducked under his cut and slammed her telescoping button into his armored knee. 

Despite being thin and lanky, even for a girl, and striking uselessly off of his think armor, her attack elicited a bellow of pain from the huge man and Taylor couldn't help but smile as the shock of that scream rippled through the camp of killers. The Mountain's knee buckled, sudden agony robbing him of strength. She had timed her baton strike with a command that caused several wasps and one Black Widow she had snuck into his armor to flood the bastard's system with toxins. She followed this with a strike against his helmet and a wasp sting to his eyelid.

She stepped away from him as he regained his feet. She suspected he had hardly felt her physical blows but he tore off his helmet and she was reminded that his opium addiction was 'medication’ for chronic headaches. The ringing sound of baton on metal helm probably hurt more than either of her swings. Though not more than the stings of her swarm. She could feel the shock of this first exchange radiating through the camp, and almost missed when the Mountain threw his helm at the back of her head. Still with the forewarning her power gave her she managed to step aside in time, even if only barely. The boy whose gaze she had captured was less fortunate.

Superhuman or not the Mountain was a huge man, and had corresponding strength. Taylor watched in horror as the metal projectile slammed into the boy's head and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Fuck! Taylor swore, disturbed by the brutal reminder of the difference between gang/cape warfare fought via flashy shows of power and blitzing midnight raids and the real thing, ruled by savage force and utterly unconcerned with collateral damage. You should have saved him. But you were too caught up in your own head, and now he’s dead because of a fight you started. Even with a fresh start you still aren’t a hero.

Taylor ignored herself, buried the shame and guilt deep in the buzzing thrum of battle, and resolved to kill the Mountain. No clever visual tricks, no theatrical lesson. She simply swarmed him. With a thought the Mountain found himself in the epicenter of a plague of insects. The venomous bugs she had already in position flooded his system with enough toxins that his fingers stopped responding, and his massive blade tumbled to the ground with a barely audible thunk. But he staggered towards her, blinded by her swarm, arms thrashing and cleaving temporary holes in the nearly solid mass of bugs that surrounded him. He still thinks he can kill me. Taylor realized, His arms aren’t swiping at bugs but where my head would be if he could reach me.

"He won't stop until one of us is dead." Taylor spoke through her swarm “And so he dies. In agony and useless rage. You can follow him, like you did when he was alive and strong. Or you can learn from him. You can drop your weapons and SCATTER! Run home, or back to whatever passes for civilization here. But think back to this day before you fight some bully’s war for money or pleasure.” 

With bugs stinging at his throat and airways the Mountain quickly crumbled, strength and rage failing in the face of the of the physical mauling her swarm had given him. "Consider yourselves disbanded. Go go in peace. If you don't.” She trailed off, she had never killed anyone with her power until today, it felt as though she'd killed him with her bare hands, was she really going to threaten hundreds more? In the end she settled for moving a wasp, bee, or spider into the face of each soldier present, a physical reminder and a threat at once. “I'll know you haven't learned." Taylor was glad the buzz of swarm voice so poorly conveyed her emotions, it meant she didn’t have to try and hide how tired she felt. With that she disappeared into her swarm, and the maelstrom of insects blocked her from view as they melted back into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah fuck the Mountain and all his merry men. Dude is probably one of the most vile characters in the entire story but, because his evil is without ambition or cunning, he rarely rises to the spotlight even during discussions of who's the most awful character in the story. That he more or less dies on screen in agony and drama probably helps people forget what a piece of work he was.
> 
> Anyway on to spoilers about Taylor's power. As always skip this bit if you don't want to know mechanics. And feel free to leave any comments or corrections. I'll read em as soon as I figure AO3's comment section out.
> 
> Taylor (aka Skitter/Weaver/Every Ward's Nightmare) has control of just about every arthropod large enough to be visible to the naked eye within a spherical range of three or so city blocks. Her control is extremely precise, and she knows the location and capabilities of every part of her swarm as well as if they were a part of her body. As that much information and multitasking would drive a normal person nuts her power helps her split her attention to inhuman levels.


	6. Chapter 6 Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I had a lot of fun writing this one. Poor Gendry is so far out of his depth, but he trying.

The road north to the Wall was easier going than Gendry had expected, the contrast between the wide dirt red pathway that was the Kings Road, and the narrow cramped cobble of the streets of Kings Landing was incredible. Even traveling with the score of other night's watch recruits Gendry felt as though he could stretch has arms out forever and not touch another person. He’d never really understood how cramped and dense kings Landing had been until he had left it for good, and discovered how large the world was. Though he knew it was a foolish and childlike dream he could not stop his mind from wondering what it would be like to smith at a forge that was open to this wide world outside his city. To feel the sweat of his work kissed away by a fresh breeze, untainted by the smells of thousands of poor unwashed people, and the hundreds of fires needed to feed them. He reminded himself that he was going north, where the breeze would not be free and fresh, but frigid and sharp as a knife. Even that would be an improvement he thought when the world was frigid and hostile the heat of his forge would be a physical as well as mental comfort. Inevitably his thoughts of the North led his attention to the most vexing part of his journey North, more so than the cart cage of crazy killers, was his budding friendship with the almost wild boy Arry. Who, it turned out, had been neither a boy nor half as wild he had seemed. The grubby street urchin with the feral eyes was, almost unbelievably Lady Arya Stark, daughter of the Eddard Stark Warden of the North and, until recently, Hand of the King! If he hadn't met the noble Lord first hand, and seen with his own eyes the family resemblance, he never would have believed it. Arya was practically a princess, her sister was betrothed to the King. Princesses weren't supposed to show up in his life, at best he expected to see a flash of hair, not learn that he'd shared meals with her!

When he thought back to how clever he’d thought himself for discovering Arry’s secret he couldn't help but cringe, it reminded him of the blunders he'd made early in his apprenticeship. Crooning at the fine edge he had honed into an embarrassingly warped blade. Lady Arya had been far more gracious about that mistake than his master had been, she had merely threatened to stab him and feed him to the wolves if he called her by her name or title. Well she had said 'my wolves' but Gendry didn't think she actually had her own pack of wolves. Not even the Greatest Houses were that eccentric.

Were they?

Although, he thought flicking his gaze towards the little noblewoman he couldn't help but picture her solemn face requesting a pack of wolves for her name day, the way other noble ladies requested ponies. "What are you laughing at now?" Arya asked, suspicion writ plain on her face. Oh hell she'd noticed, he must have let a smile touch his lips. He never had been good at dishonesty. It just wasn't something he'd ever needed before.

"Oh it's nothing my La.'' He began and caught himself as her eyes narrowed and her hand drift towards the hilt of her curious little blade. He hastened to correct himself. "Friend. Just a joke I finally understood." Arya’s suspicion flowed quickly into curiosity and he added “too crude for your La-lame tastes." She accepted that without comment which was in itself very unusual. It wasn't that Gendry thought Arya would actually stab him, but he had always been taught to avoid embarrassing nobles and knights, even if that entailed not calling their bluffs. Besides which while he was sure she wouldn’t really hurt him, she did look quite eager to use that slip of steel, and Gendy preferred to keep his limbs and nonvital areas free of stab wounds.

The next hour or two of travel passed in companionable silence, though Arya opened her mouth to say something only to close it on silence three times. Yorren found a good place to spend the night and had them break into groups to prepare the camp. Hot Pie and the others spent dinner bickering endlessly over something stupid, as always. Though the argument felt off and it wasn't until Gentry noticed Arya staring blankly into the fire that he put his finger on why. Usually after a few rounds of back and forth idiocy Arya would call them all idiots and cut to the truth of the argument. Not that they listened to her, or each other, but he tended to agree with Arya and the unified dissent from two of the more intimidating members of the conversation usually kept the other idiots from loudly proclaiming their brilliance, or at least from doing it as frequently. Without her input the boys were quickly becoming totally insufferable. His meal now finished, he didn't see much reason to stick around. The night was warm enough that he hardly needed the fire's warmth, so he stood to take a walk, clear his head, and most importantly get out before he could get roped into the night's verbal slap fight, or the literal one he was sure would follow.

“Leaving so soon?" Hot Pie's annoying voice piped up. How the boy had grown fat in a city as hungry as kings Landing Gentry did not know.

"You lot are especially irritating tonight. I'm leaving before you drain my wits so thoroughly I forget how to swing a hammer." Gendy replied, no real venom in his tone. Soon enough these boys would be his brothers in arms as well as in oath. As for Lady Arya, well she would return to her family's hold, and eventually marry some Lord, who would likely die fearlessly in battle.

After all what fear would the blades of the enemy hold to a man who lived with a woman as fierce as Arya?

Again his mind conjured some imagined lordling addressing his men with threats of his wife's disappointment and scorn should they lose, and her outright wrath if they broke. Gendry had never heard a rousing prebattle speech, aside from the historical puppet shows sometimes put on during fairs. But he couldn't help feel that a speech like that would be far more effective than the rousing cries of heroism and glory that usually proceeded one group of puppets thrashing against the other. It was only the heros that got those speeches, but he supposed they were probably much the same.

He almost jumped free of his skin when Lady Arya suddenly spoke, she'd managed to get directly behind him without so much as a sound. "Laughing at me again?”

"Of course not my'' He cleared his throat "How did you know?”

"You don't laugh at much else you're almost as humorless as..." she trailed off thoughtfully, did she mean her father, perhaps her brother in the Night's watch? She resolved herself and continued "Well you'll meet her tonight anyway." He thought he heard her mutter under her breath something that sounded suspiciously like "Unless I really am mad." Which was not something you wanted to hear from someone who had threatened to stab you.

"Meet who?" Some protector, or family friend, come to hasten her return home?

"The girl from my dreams." Arya said unsure of herself for maybe the first time awaiting his reaction.

"Your… your dream girl?" It wasn't that Gentry hadn't heard of that sort of thing, he just always thought the stories made up. A way for the religious to attack the nobility, or for whorehouses to draw more attention to their girls. How had Arya even talked with this girl while traveling? He wondered, they had no ravens and she hadn’t off wandered into the night. Meeting by chance in the middle of the woods couldn't be something that reliably happened, even if both parties were on the Kings Road.

"What? No! Not like that!" Arya halfway yelled hand unconsciously, he hoped, griping her slender blade's hilt. "No I mean, when I dream at night I see her and we almost even talk. Nymeria can't really talk with words but Rachel seems to understand her most of the time." After a moment where Gendry scrambled desperately for words Arya spoke again, shattering all his hopes of sanity. "She's very interesting, you'll like her. She takes care of my wolves for me!"

“You... actually have wolves?" was all Gendy could think to say.

Arya hedged "Well, they're really more Nymeria's but she's mine so...Yes."

Gendy felt he could use a quick blow or two to the head, just to restart his thoughts, but even if he could find the words to ask, there was no way Arya could reach his head. Plus she'd likely stab him instead. The joking threat was gaining credulity as more and more of Arya's outlandish jokes turned out to be closer to what she thought reality was. They walked for several more minutes in a comfortable silence, never quite leaving earshot of the camp. He was beginning to think that perhaps it hadn't been ferocity or determination he"d been seeing in her eyes, but rather madness. When a massive grey shape charged out of the night. He caught a glimpse of a beast the size of a small pony with the shaggy grey fur of a dog, or a wolf, before it slammed into Arya and bore her to the ground.

Arya managed only a single high pitched shriek before she hit the forest floor and the massive beast was atop her. He could see her arms and legs, so tiny in comparison to the beastly wolf's size, flailing uselessly against the creature's flanks. In a panic he threw his body into the task of breaking a large branch from a nearby tree. He may not have been sworn to the Starks, or even a proper soldier but every man regardless of age or birth, knew that when a beast set it's sights on a Lady you saved the Lady or died trying. He readied his makeshift club, perhaps he could distract the beast long enough for Yorren and the others to arrive and drive it off. He charged the wolf, which was large as a lion, and aimed his first blow at the base of the creatures neck, his first strike had to count. He knew enough of fights to know he'd never get another chance half as good. Then he felt something slam into his side, with a low but human grunt. Almost before he could think the person was wresting the branch from his grip. He heard the branch land in the underbrush, good as lost in the darkening forest.

He almost couldn’t understand, what kind of person let a girl be eaten by a beast like that? Not the kind Gendry could ignore. His assailant had been no beast. They were a person, and one smaller than he was. His apprenticeship had kept him from the worst of the streets, but he was still big for his age and vicious kids looking to prove themselves picked fights with big quiet boys, so he knew the basics well. Gendry rounded on his foe swing with all his forge earned strength, aiming to end the fight right away while there was still hope for Arya.

His punch hit nothing but air, in the dim light all he could see as his enemy ducked under his swing was that their short hair was wild and unkempt. Then they countered. Four blows pounded into his sides before he could get his guard up. When he finally did his foe hooked their leg behind his own and shoved him bodily to the ground. He landed poorly, and before he could regain his breath his assailant whistled sharply and spoke for the first time "Bastard, fetch." Anger and no small amount of shame rose at her voice. Not only had he been knocked on his ass by a girl she apparently knew him as a bastard and wasn't above midfight taunts.

"Bitch!” He rasped in response, before another huge fanged beast was upon him. While the creature that had felled poor Arya had looked like a normal wolf, from some wild forgotten age of giant beasts, the creature that set upon him looked like the sort of thing a very creative or disturbed septum would insist hunted those the seven most despised. The beast was of a similar size and height as the great wolf that had taken Arya, but it's build was closer to that of a bear, had four legs, two eyes, and a single mouth but there the resemblance with natural beasts ended. It's flesh was uneven, some sections were covered in rough pebbly skin like a lizard’s, other areas were uncovered and what looked like bare muscle showed. Where a dog might have spots this nightmare creature had spines and ridges of exposed bone. The thing's great maw opened wide and Gendry saw death in it's great teeth. He desperately thrust his makeshift club into the demon's mouth one hand on each side of the branch, the beast was so large there was hardly enough of the branch on each end of its mouth for Gendry to hold.

If the beast couldn't close it's jaws on him there was only so much damage it could do. At least, that had been the plan, the devil beast chomped down on the branch then with a single shake tore the branch from Gendry's hands with ease and sent it tumbling into the woods. Again it seemed the Stranger beckoned Gendry, But he was not yet ready to die he flung his arms up and felt the great jaws close on both, pinning them together. Gendry, it seemed, had made his last mistake.

He felt a sharp pain in his shoulders as he felt the great beast dragging him over the ground. What he didn't feel was his arm's being crushed or savaged by the beast's mouth. “Bastard" The new girl spoke again "Hold. Watch." Gendry could hardly see a thing with the monster towering over him, but he could hear Anya making soft high pitched sounds. He was about to begin yelling for help when the monster dropped his arms from its mouth, replacing them with a huge paw planted on his chest and it was abruptly an effort to breathe, and he had no air left to call for help. His view at least was less obstructed and Gendry saw the hellish beast was leashed, like one might a dog, only, with a thick chain in place of a rope, which trailed Its way to the girl's hand.

"Enough! I yield!" He heard Arya call out breathlessly. "Oh I've missed you so much Nymeria! You would have hated to Kings Landing." Arya sounded... fine, happy. Almost happy enough to weep he thought. "Though I did spend a lot of time chasing cats, so maybe you wouldn't have hated all of it!"

“Nymeria. Sit." The new girl's voice held a note of warning in it and Gendry saw the great wolf sitting on it's haunches, panting contentedly as Arya picked herself up off the ground apparently unharmed and lavished the great wolf with affectionate pats and scratches. Arya smiled at the other girl before noticing his predicament. 

"Rachel!" she exclaimed "Why is Bastard sitting on my friend like that?"

"He tried to hurt Nymeria. Bastard was gentle though." The new girl, Rachel apparently, replied as if that was that. Gentry tried to disagree, but his words came out as a wheeze instead. “Drop" Rachel said and the monster released Gendry and trotted over to the strange girl who proceeded to scratch it like a favorite puppy

He coughed as air filled his greedy lungs. "Lady Arya! You're alright? I thought for sure the beast had killed you!"

"Nymeria would never hurt me!" Arya snapped back, more affronted than he had ever heard her before. "She's mine, and besides I trained her well when she was a puppy." Rachel made a noise of disagreement but Arya forged on. "Gendry this is Rachel, the girl from my dreams, and Bastard her puppy! Most importantly this is Nymeria, my puppy. Go say hello Nymeria." The massive wolf padded over to Gendry and gave him a cautious sniff or two before trotting back over to Arya to cadge more petting from her.

"What in the seven hells is that thing?" Gendry asked cautiously getting to his feet and eyeing the big unnatural hulk of bone and sinew with open fear.

"His name is Bastard." Rachel said tersely.

"Don't worry he only looks like this because Rachel is using her magic on him. He's adorable normally."

"It's not magic, it's my power." Rachel said.

"Rachel is a witch." Arya confided.

"I'm not a witch." Rachel corrected scowling.

About then the rest of the Nights Watch found them, all but Yorren wielding hastily improvised weapons. Gendry began to wish he had turned himself over to the Gold Cloaks by the time the two mad girls, mostly Arya, had convinced Yorren not to die trying to take away their pet monsters. He was valiantly trying not to picture the mess that would be left of his brothers if they tried, then Arya asked him to come home with her and smith for her family.

Eventually Gendry slept, and when he woke the insanity of the previous night continued, as they were joined for breakfast by a dozen more canines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new powers, if you forgot what Rachel/Bitch does...look it up I guess. Or enjoy the mystery.


	7. Chapter 7 Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes writing awful people can be fun.
> 
> Everybody pretend I didn't originally title this Chapter 9. I swear I can count. Honest.

The past few months had not gone as planned. True they had begun well Robert had met his inevitable end, dead by his own drunken idiocy. She was quite proud of her role in his death. As assassinations went it was quiet, detached, perfectly untraceable. Just a boy making sure a drunk drank his fill. There was something poetic in assassinating a drunkard with wine, none would question or look into it, even if they did what could they expect to find? That the wine had been stronger than the king's usual fare? As though the impulsive idiot had never demanded stronger drink. Cersei smiled, she couldn't find the motivation to resist the expression. She was alone in her own chambers with no idiot Lords and Ladies to play the simpering widow' to. It was she reasoned, her right to enjoy her success, alone, if with no one else.

There was a knock at her door and Tyrion entered, abruptly ruining her good mood, and sure to taint the rest of the night with some ‘vital task’ he needed her help with. He was accompanied as always, by two men. Apparently they had been vital to his escape from the foolish Tully sisters. The first was no enigma, everything about him screamed ‘sell sword.’ Granted he was old for a sell sword, meaning he was skilled at killing or cowardice. His insolent tongue led her to suspect the first, otherwise he'd surely have been stabbed over something 'clever' long ago. She could tell just from looking at him that he was nowhere near as skilled as her Jamie, the sellsword put on a good swagger but she saw the nervousness it was meant to hide. It was clear in his equipment too. He wore more blades than Cersei wore jewelry. The blades were fall backs for when he was disarmed, and she saw them for what they were, in admission of inferiority. The man knew he was no match for a skilled knight so he planned for defeat. Tyrion likely saw the display as one of practicality proving once again that for all that father had to tried the little monster knew nothing of Nobility. Jamie would never be so insecure as to openly carry so many back-ups, but then Jamie wasn't likely to be disarmed in the first place. If Tyrion was going to entrust his safety-to a man so obviously unqualified she would hardly lift a finger to correct his error. The sooner the Imp was dead the better as far as she was concerned. The whore mongering deviant brought nothing but dishonor to their house, and yet Tywin somehow saw fit to appoint him as Hand of the King over her. Making a mockery of a position he himself had held well for decades. "Congratulations, I believe are in order, or something like that." Tyson said placing on her table two letters, both opened, with the spidery hand writing of their father. Tyrion’s face alone let her guess the contents.

“Two weddings to plan? Is it?" A guess, father would hardly have needed two letters if it were only her Joffery's wedding he was ordering. "One ceremony will need to be the stuff of songs, but the other can be less... ostentatious."  
Tyrion fidgeted in discomfort as she finished and she knew that her guess had been right, Tywin had finally had enough of Tyrion's whoring and had picked a bride for him. Good. “So, who is the poor, bitch father has seen fit to marry you off to?” 

“Sansa Stark." Tyrion admitted ashen with dismay at the prospect, as if she weren't a far more beautiful bride than Tyrion could woo on his own.

“But she is betrothed to Jeffery." Not that the silly airhead was good enough for her golden prince, but he would be saddened to lose her as a toy

"Not anymore. Now king Joffery is to marry Margery Tyrell, if Staniss should win the day, and in doing so ago secure the loyalty of the Reach. Or if Staniss should fall, Shireen. To bind the Stormlands to our house" The thought of Joffery being slighted by marrying another man's wife, or worse, that ugly sickly child of Staniss’, stoked her rage, but something in Tyrion's posture told her the worst blow had yet to fall. Her guess had been wrong after all then.

“And the third wedding?" she asked numbly, how efficient of father, to demand two lesser weddings in a single letter.

"You're to remarry, to Prince Oberyn Martell." She couldn't understand. It wasn't enough that as a girl she had been sold to an impulsive warrior with more bastards than titles, now a woman in full and Tywin demanded she sell herself, again? To a man with six bastards already? She noticed her glass was empty when she felt the cup bend under her white knuckled grip.

Tyrion cleared his throat then spoke "Brian, I believe my sister and I could use a refill." At this Tyrion’s second new body man crossed the room to fetch another jug of wine. He was a young oddity, his skin was dark as the space between stars, his teeth were white as any lord's, and although he carried himself like a man accustomed to violence he seemed deeply uncomfortable carrying a blade on his hip. Tyrion seated himself across from her and as Brian filled their glasses she noticed another oddity, the boy smelled neither of sweat nor perfume despite the heat of the day.

"Congratulations m’Lady." The honorific seemed wrong coming from his mouth, and it wasn't even the correct title. Just like Tyrion to bring a fool to court.

That dull witted comment earned him a sneer and a terse "Leave." She could not wait until Jamie returned from this idiotic war, his presence always made cowing the disrespectful peasants Tyrion collected easier. As Dowager Queen it was beneath her to threaten violence in response to idiocy. But with her champion present she could freely imply or command it.

Tyrion added, tone filled with needless softness.. "But leave the wine eh?" The two swords did as ordered and she waited till the door closed behind them to speak 

"I hope you aren't staying behind because you expect sympathy over the death of your days as a whore monger?"

"No, sister we have to talk. The world, it's changing father and Jamie are too overtaxed by the war to notice but there are hints everywhere."

"Oh what nonsense it is this? Have your wits fallen hostage to yet more smallfolk rumors of snarks and grues?'' It would make sense if he’d lost his wits during his brief captivity. Since his escape from the Eyrie Tyrion had been even dafter in the head than ever before.

“No! Damnit the comet has changed things! Varys' birds reported that they have personally seen the Thorn of High Garden be run through and continue fighting; The Wall writes of dead men rising from the dead, and our own men say The Mountain was slain in single combat by a girl no bigger than Sansa.. My own agents report the girl's new bodyguard never sleeps. Somehow Dorne has managed the greatest intelligence coup I’ve read of and silenced or turned almost every single one of our spies in their court, and atop it all the Targaryen girl is said to have hatched dragons from stone!”

This at least lightened her mood, to hear the Imp admit he was no cleverer than a girl braiding flowers to find her fate. She allowed herself a laugh. “And what would you have us do? Spread rumors of magic revived like every other reactionary fool? Or perhaps bow to foreign witches like that fool Staniss." She snored snorted dismissively, the only magic the Red Priestess had was between her legs. The thought of that self righteous prick finally bending before some whore almost brought a smile to her lips.  
In the end it was the weakness all men shared.

"This is not some half starved small folk rumor run amok, or vague prophecy, this is multiple otherwise trustworthy reports of things magical from multiple sources. If we don't take this seriously we may well find ourselves backed into a corner with no where to go but intolerant a grave."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation "You expect the words of criminals, savages, and children to drive reason entirely from my mind? I have a kingdom to rule, but if you wish to waste time taking madmen seriously instead of getting in my way and whoring yourself to an early grave then do so.''

The Imp hesitated, speechless for a blessed few seconds then, as she began to dismiss him, he blurted out "I've seen this new magic with my own eyes, felt it's touch on my skin! My man, Brian”

She cut him off and laughed. Laughed for what felt like the first time since childhood she a full unrestrained laugh. The indignation and anger on Tyrion’s squat ugly face made it all the more difficult to stop the laughter. "Finally gone mad have you? I knew your years of whoring and drinking would rob you of what scant wits you had to begin with."

At this her mad brother stormed from her room and left her to her wine and laughter. Still when she lay down to sleep that night she found it elusive, rather than peace, or the recent joy of a bed entirely her own, the words of a witch invaded her calm again and again. The old crone was nothing but a disturbing charlatan, and Cersei was a woman of reason. Yet still that night in the woods haunted her.

"And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to guess who the capes I teased this chapter are?


	8. Chapter 8 Jamie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dynamic was a lot more fun to write than I expected it would be, enjoy the better twin.

It was odd, Jamie reflected, how deeply unsettled he was over the death of the Mountain. The man had been a monster, almost absurdly so, if there was an evil deed or foul crime the huge beast of a man hadn't committed Jamie would have been surprised. By all reason the seven kingdoms were a better place now that the Mountain was rotting. Even losing him as a 'commander' and seeing his forces scattered into the woods was no real loss in his opinion. The entire force had been a brutal and undisciplined lot. Fearsome in skirmishes, but prone to rout or break ranks in any serious engagement. That the deserters would turn to banditry wasn't a concern, Father's orders had been little more than a sanction for banditry and worse. In truth Jamie felt he should be glad someone had put the beast down before It had slipped Father's leash, and yet... by all reports The Mountain had been felled in single combat. Though far from a master swordsman the man's sheer size and strength had more than compensated. Clad in more steel than the two knights it should have taken skill and precision, far beyond anything he had expected to lurk in these woods, to kill the big man. Had the Riverlands been hiding a prodigy. But why bother? The war was a recent thing and it's outbreak had been swift, not nearly enough time for even a gifted student to be trained to that level of skill. 

Perhaps there was some truth to those other rumors then. The thought came unbidden. Since the comet there had been constant whispers of magic and monsters returning to the world. The small folk always spoke of such things but now the whispers were coming from nobility. The Unbroken Thorn of High Garden, The Primeval pack, and the Desert Fox was said to know more than any man or woman should. Even Tyrion, probably the most well read man Jamie knew, claimed to have been saved by a man with power over mists thicker and darker than storm clouds.

If Tyion was convinced, Jamie had a hard time convincing himself that the rumors were the usual substance-less prattle he usually associated with the term.

That, at last, let him put his finger to his unease. If magic and no monsters were returning to the world who wouldn't feel safer knowing their side had one leashed and trained? But Tywin’s monster was dead and gone, and now Jamie sat calmly waiting to negotiate with, or kill, whoever had laid the Mountain low. For the first time in what felt like ages he spoke aloud. "Well" he indulged in a little grim satisfaction at his next words" I've always fancied I'd make a dashing Dragon-slayer!"

"My Lord?" One of his attendants confused by the aside asked, but Jamie didn't bother to explain, he'd long ago stopped trying to make other men understand. 

They never did. 

It seemed like no time at all passed between his realization and the other parties arrival. though in actuality it was likely a longer span of time it just lessened because his earlier wait had been distorted by the agony of an uncertain fear. Jamie was accustomed to dealing with fear, one couldn’t really become a knight or swordsman worth the name without learning to cope with fear and pain. Removing the uncertainty brought Jamie back to familiar ground. Even if it had been a while since he felt the thrum of fear that comes with facing a threat that may truly be beyond one's ability to survive.

When the delegation from the Lightning Lord's strode into the pavilion the Lannister men had erected for the talks it Jamie the space of a breath to pick out who had beaten the Mountain.

"You are not at all what I was expecting." Was the first thing Jamie said. To the annoyance of his diplomats to be sure, especially as he addressed not Beric Dondorian who led the delegation, looking every inch the noble knight. Nor Thoros of Myr the foreign priest who had a reputation for fighting with his blade lit aflame standing to his right. It was the thin warrior to Beric's left that won Jamie's attention and words. The warrior's armor was a mottled dark grey fabric covering every inch of skin, though long and downright beautiful hair hung free, over this was plating of some strange material that reminded Jamie of a large beetle more than anything else. The helmet, if you could even call it that, covered the whole face except where the eyes ought to be, there the fabric gave way to brilliantly colored stained glass, orange in color. This almost totally obscured Jamie's view of the hard unconcerned eyes behind them. The armor panels of the helm had been worked and arranged to give the impression of a nightmarishly large insect.

All together the ensemble was one of the most intimidating suits of armor he had ever seen. Utterly impractical of course, the free flowing hair meant the back of the head was unprotected, the lack of a traditional helm meant blunt force would kill easily, and having glass that close to one's eyes was begging for trouble. Despite this the warrior's posture spoke not of the wary tension of one a breath away from violence, like everyone else in their little pavilion, but of one so unconcerned by the threat of violence that they hardly noticed the razor edge that gripped the spines of both delegations. Jamie imagined they were even less stressed than he was himself. Granted after facing down the Mountain in his own camp Jamie doubted he and his two retainers cut an especially intimidating visage. After all Jamie’s skill, though deadlier than the Mountian’s bulk, was hardly visible.

"And what did you expect Kingslayer?" Though hard the voice was undoubtedly that of a young woman. Which given the hair, and the rumors of a witch not a warlock, was less of a surprise to Jamie than the rest of his delegation who gasped out idiocy like "a woman?" and "you jest" despite how obvious it was that the grey robed woman was easily the most dangerous in her party.

Dondorian put up a good front, but was nothing special, and Thoros had clearly begun drinking judging from the slight sway. No the girl had killed the Mountain and anyone who couldn't realize that was a fool or willfully ignorant. There was no other reason why she would be brought along not for her "Honestly? Baleiron given human form." There was, he decided, no spark of recognition in her eyes at the name. Interesting,even the smallest of small folk still knew the massive dragon’s name. Not from around here then, she probably wouldn't fight like a Westerosi knight then. Practical given her armor. What was a foreign master swordswomen doing in this backwater? And where was her blade, it was a parlay to be sure but every other person in the tent had a blade. Jamie knew well that talks of reaching peace often came to blows. "But I’m afraid you’re a little short to be the Black Dread." He continued jovially.

"Aegon's dragon." Beric said after a quizzical look from the young girl. Ah ha so he doesn't know her story either. Jamie was starting to wonder if the sheer mystery of the masked woman had played a role in the Mountain's death, but the man had always had as much curiosity and mirth as a particularly angry sack of badgers.

After a moment, the woman said, "I'm no Balerion. But you also weren't what I was expecting.” Jamie couldn't resist an opportunity like that.

"And what were you expecting?"

“An arrogant, self centered, pretty boy, a relic of the distant past.” Well not living up to that was almost a compliment, but before he could say as much she continued "Which you are." 

Stung Jamie shot back ''So you think I’m pretty then?" The interruption threw her off and though she didn't move or make a sound Jamie felt as though could almost hear her annoyance vibrating the air around them like the low beginnings of a large dog's growl. When next she spoke the first few words she spoke seemed to gain a distorted echo as though spoken through a buzzing insects wings.

"Perhaps for a sheltered child.” Then she seemed to center herself with a breath and her voice was again just that of a young woman. "I expected rashness, threats you couldn't carry out, the grand posturing that comes with a name like Kingslayer. At least some rage, villains usually pull at least one of those when you smash their minions."

Ahh there it was, that old 'sin' dredged up again and used to define who he was "You think me a story book villain then? Were you expecting I'd steal you away to some benighted tower too?"

She snorted in disdain "You claim territory, employ violence against those that cross you, fight with other gangs, and exploit the people unfortunate enough to live near ‘your’ land. I assumed you’d be more honest than the rest of those idiots who think themselves noble heroes. Or was the Kingslayer boast not the first speck of honesty I’ve found in anyone rich enough to afford nice armor. Am I wrong, about any of that?" The girl asked not him but Beric, and received agreement as readily as if she had asked if a blade was sharp.

It rankled and Jamie, still stressed from his earlier worrying, found himself replying honestly and without thought. “Not in the least. I gave up all claims to lands and titles when I was sixteen, I don't stab everyone I find disagreeable, or did you not notice my blade was still sheathed. Clegene served my father not I, and personally I'm glad you killed the bastard. But most of all the Kingslayer name is no boast, though Aerys deserved my blade as surely as Clegene did yours."

"Clegene was a rapist and a monster." The woman said, voice oddly free of accusation or derision. No disagreement just a point of order, as if she were seeking some measurement of evil that justified his killing. Was she... actually asking for his side of things?

“The Mad King was no better I assure you. I was away from home, new to my post as King’s Guard, and only sixteen the first time I heard him violently and sadistically rape his wife.” That...hadn't been at all what I'd meant to say. “I had just sworn my oaths. You see, so they were fresh in my mind. Sworn to protect the king and his family, to protect the weak and helpless or die in the attempt. Yet there I stood all night, with another Kingsguard a man years my senior. When I asked him what we were to do he just shrugged and said there was nothing we could do. We'd sworn to protect her, but not from him. One of the most noble knights in the realm, if you believed the songs, which I did, told me that stopping the king from raping his sister would do nothing but see my head removed, and buy her perhaps a night of peace."

"His...sister?" The woman asked in a revulsion cloaking a voice that belonged to a scared child.

"The Targaryans intermarried, believing it kept their blood pure.” Beric said in a quiet tone. Jamie was pretty sure the girl replied but having opened that door Jamie found himself lost in the intense memories.

“I used to wonder what the world would have looked like if I'd put an end to the Mad King that night, or anyone of the other nights. I'd have died to be sure, maybe even sparked a war if father took it badly, but Rhaegar would have been a far better king than his father or that fool Robert." Those stained glass eyes meet mine, half reproach half something else. Something approaching understanding perhaps just what kind of life had this woman led that let her such understanding? "But I was young and enamored with knighthood. The Kings Guard are legendary, there are songs about them and everything. They almost defined Knighthood, and only the most reviled knights broke their oaths so soon after swearing them. "The king was old and weak l told myself and it wasn't long until his madness sparked a conspiracy to unseat him in favor of his son; and then soon after a war aiming to end the Targaryan Dynasty once and for all. His reign would end any day now even if I didn't end it personally. What was a few months of tolerating a monster weighed against all the good I could do and the glory I could win myself under a Just King?” He sneered at his past foolishness, but it seemed he had everyone’s rapt attention. Perhaps they’d listen this time.

“And then my father finally joined the war. He tricked his way into the city and began to sack it. The Mad King gave his final orders then, one to me and one to his pet pyromancer. Of me he demanded my father's head. Patricide and suicide in a single task. To his pet alchemist he repeated aloud what he had been muttering for hours.” It took a moment to find his voice and when Jamie pushed the words through his lips he heard not his own voice but the rasp and glee of the mad king in his final hours.  
"Burn them all. He said. For if Ayres couldn't have the city then he wanted it to be given to his one true love. The pyromancer was gleeful to heed the order, and hurried to set a city of thousands of helpless innocents ablaze. I put Ayres and his minion to the sword and damn any man who would have done otherwise."

"How was one man to set the whole city alight?" Asked Thasos an eternity later.

"Wyldfire. Aerys and his creature had placed as cashes of the stuff all over the city. A single spark would have left the whole city ash." Jamie felt cold he often did thinking back on those ashen days.

"But Lord Stark..." Beric began to protest and it stoked hot rage in Jamie's belly.

“Yes. The honorable Ned Stark saw an oath breaker seated and a dead king.” His words tasted of pure venom then. “He named me King Slayer and oath breaker then and there. I suspect he'd have executed me on the spot had he not needed my father's support.” A thought struck Jamie “Hah, he condemned me for the very same task he had stormed through the Red Keep to undertake, didn’t even thank me for killing the man who cackled as Stark’s Father burned alive." The flaming rage fell again to frost.

"You had taken the Iron Throne!" Beric protested loudly.

"As a seat, nothing more. What child hasn't dreamed of sitting in it, if only for a moment." After a second he found himself adding. “It was the only seat in the room." Then after another moment. "And the stairs were covered in blood.”

“Is what he says true? "The young warrior had been silent this whole time now turned her gaze on her companions who mumbled vague confirmation that Jamie’s story didn’t have any obvious holes. But Jamie, now unreasonably tired, couldn't be bothered to follow. After the men’s voices fell silent she nodded and turned to him. Her voice softened, silk and compassion where they’re only been ice before and asked “Who else knows your side?"

Jamie shrugged "Anyone who asked. My brother, Ser Barristen, that fool Robert. But..."

''Who would bother to ask when the obvious story is that a spoiled rich boy broke an oath and killed a man to help his family gain more power?" 

The woman, Jamie decided, was full of surprises. “You sound like you understand." He said.

"I've been fucked over by noble Heroes more times than I can count, but they still called me villain every time."

Jamie rose from his seat and gave her a small bow "Jamie Lannister; I'm genuinely pleased to meet you miss..."

The woman hesitated then to his surprise removed the mask covering her face, and hiding her age. Then extended her hand "Taylor Hebert." Jamie clasped her arm as he would a fellow warrior. He acted on reflex though. As the only thought in his mind was Seven Hells she's hardly older than Joffrey, what barbaric backwater birthed girls this hard?

“But in costume you can call me." she hesitated, then a smile she fought to suppress touched the edge of her lips. "Weaver."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the bits that I have complete. But expect a Tyrell one shot, and our first hero, soon.


	9. Chapter 9- Margery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me, I think it would be quite cool if my first fic passed a thousand hits on my birthday so, have a new chapter! Anyone suggesting I sat on this chapter for a few days to line this up is a blatant liar, who would have been totally right if I didn’t have to rewrite the ending to be happy with it.

Military camps, Margery reflected, were not nearly so dire as she had been led to believe. To be sure the food left much to be desired, but the pavilions she shared with Renly were surprisingly well furnished. The days of riding would have been dreadfully tedious if her family and ladies in waiting hadn’t been along with her, and from what she understood Renly’s camps hosted more entertainment than the camps her father and uncles recalled when deep in their cups. She suspected that as the war progressed conditions would worsen, but she was beginning to take her Grandmother’s position that the horrifying boasts of her uncles was little more than elaborate gilding to cover an otherwise uneventful war.

Her parents had argued, briefly, against Margery’s inclusion in the party that would ride along with Renly’s war camp, but a few sharp arguments from Grandmother Olenna had silenced her mother’s concerned mumbling and seen her off to accompany her new husband to war. Not that they had found the war yet, Stannis knew he was out matched and was being quite tedious about it. Still the camp regularly rang of steel on steel as Renly held frequent tournaments to keep his sharpest fighters at their best. Nothing like real war she knew, but the displays of skill and strength were breathtaking all the same.

Her interest in war and swordplay was likely more than was proper for a lady of her status, but the passion her brothers all shared had rubbed off on her. Garlan was a whirlwind, Loras fairly melted the heart of every lady who watched him with a lance, the poor things, and even her eldest brother, who had been crippled as long as she could remember was still mad for it. She supposed Willas was most to blame really. She couldn’t count the nights she had drifted to sleep to the sound of his calming voice sharing with her the knowledge he’d found in the Tyrell’s vast library. Since his leg kept him from indulging in the practical aspects of martial prowess he'd dived into the mental aspects. Reading every memoir and history on the subject he could find, borrow, or convince Father to buy. Then he would share his favorites with her, his favorite sister. His interests had widened of course, but stories of great battles and triumphs of cleverness made far better bedtime reading than advanced maths. Even if the maths would have sent her to sleep faster. 

Before her in the middle of a ring of eager shouting men two knights rained blows upon each other. She cheered as Loras landed a solid blow, but both fighters were tired, and exhaustion sapped the power from his strike and his foe kept her feet. Brienne of Tarth was a woman whose passion for knighthood far outstripped Margery’s own. Had Brienne been any other woman Margery would have described her looks as unfortunate just short of a curse. Tall and broad shouldered Brienne reminded her more of Garlan than any lady she had ever met. The woman’s hair could be salvageable, and her eyes could be striking, but it was hard to picture any dress so fine that it would soften her broad build enough for an onlooker to find her beautiful. And even then her height and size would spoil the dress’ effect unless her husband was exceptionally broad and strong himself.

But, happily, Brienne was no proper lady. Instead of trying to hide her strength and size she had convinced her father to let her become a knight in truth. Where her build was no secret shame but the very thing that let her thrive. She had, it seemed, been disarmed by Loras and instead of yielding tackled him to the ground. A short scuffle ensued but Loras, still sixteen and not yet fully grown, was no match for the great woman’s strength and found himself at her mercy once she drew a knife from gods knew where.

Margery found herself unable to root against the strange earnest woman. Brienne removed her helm and fairly beamed at Renly eager to hear what praise her latest victory had won her. Renly, ever charismatic, supplied while Margery met Loras’ eyes. Unhappy to be bested, more so to hear his love praise another. Margery doubted he’d noticed her silent support for Brienne, but she wouldn’t have felt bad even if he had. Her little brother’s ego always needed some deflating, she thought, courtesy of someone other than Garlan for once. Besides she had no doubt her husband would be soothing Loras’ bruises, ego and all, later in the day.

Truthfully Brienne had won the tournament the moment she bested Loras, but she still had one challenger to face. Margery’s newest brother, known widely as The Thorn of High Garden. The strange boy was more a Martell than a Tyrell in appearance, and no one would ever mistake one of her natural born brothers for him. Carlos, as he had named himself, was a houseless nobody who had come to her family’s attention when, bleeding from several chest wounds, he had dragged a beaten rambling man to the guards and demanded he be tried as a rapist. He further surprised the guards when, instead of bleeding out, or taking weeks to recover from his brutal wounds, he returned the next day with two known thugs he claimed to have caught red handed shaking down store owners for ‘protection money.’ The wounds those two had inflicted were supposedly more gruesome, though nobody would tell her what they’d been. Not something a Lady of her standing should be troubled with, her informant had told her, and she could tell her curiosity was disturbing some of her ladies in waiting.

At any rate by the third time he dragged some lowlife to the guards they had been given a letter inviting him to meet with her Father and his court. Her father had considered breaking her engagement with Renly to marry her instead to Carlos, and thus secure his loyalty to the family. It was the first time she’d seen her knight-mad father wish he had more daughters than sons. But Grandmother had observed that as he had no family to speak of, wouldn’t it perhaps be better to simply adopt the boy, after all why spend family resources to acquire something that was free for the taking. In truth Grandmother had been far harsher, one of the serving girls Margery had befriended claimed Grandmother had said “Just like my oafish son to piss away a future king to buy what he could have for free.” Which admittedly sounded much more like grandmother even if the poor girl’s face had burned with embarrassment at having to slight her lord to his daughter’s face. Carlos had been taken aback by the offer, and accepted without truly understanding what was happening.

He had gotten quite amusingly flustered when Wilas had later mentioned that the original plan had been for him to marry Margery instead. She smiled in remembrance, her favorite brother had timed his revelation just as Carlos had gone to take a drink, Wilas wasn’t as boisterous as Garlan or as suave as Loras, but she would never understand how he’d gotten a reputation as a dour or boring young man. She had made an effort to get to know her strange fourth brother after that. He was...entirely unlike anyone she had ever met before. The home he described sounded like nothing she had ever heard or read of. He had a kind soul, along with some very strange political beliefs, but she found it difficult to truly connect with him, it was as though he expected every moment to wake up from some queer dream. For all that he was diligent, surprisingly well educated, his knowledge of mathematics and the workings of the human body had deeply impressed the Maesters tasked with assessing his wit. Though his knowledge of politics, geography, and statecraft were abysmal.

She fully expected that Brienne would score two or even three mortal wounds on him before the bout ended. She could see the large woman’s face scrunch in confusion as Renly and Loras told her that she was to hold nothing back, including lethal strikes. It must have been odd Margery thought to change mindsets from treating the fight as a game to one with deadly consequences, but Margery watched as it took only a few moments for a grim resolve to set itself into Brienne’s backbone. “Is there anything I should watch for?” Carlos startled her, it was amazing how quietly the boy could move in armor, as if he barely needed to touch the ground. True he was wearing the strange battered and torn armor he’d been wearing when he had arrived. Made of odd materials the blacksmith had never seen before, rather than the steel plate Westerosi knights preferred.

“Why dear brother, you’ve seen the same fights as I, surely a knight as legendary as yourself has far deeper insights than I could hope to offer.” He surely didn’t. But this whole fight was about impressing upon all witnesses how fruitless a fight against the Thorn of High Garden would be. He couldn’t very well start that show off by taking advice from a proper Lady like herself.

He snorted a short laugh through his nose, and said “Oh, yeah. We’re in public, I’m supposed to be pretending you didn’t have a front row seat to Garlan and Loras’ years of training.” He cleared his throat and began again. “Dear sister, I know you must have uh lady-like concerns for my safety, pray tell unto me them. That I may uhh assure you I...know what I’m doing.”

Gods protect him he was trying, he actually took well to the little games of presentation Grandmother insisted her grandchildren play. He said it reminded him of his time as a ward. It’s just that his ability to speak like proper nobility was rivaled only the most clever of the squirrels that nested in her family’s many gardens. She allowed herself a genuine smile at him and considered what to tell her nervous new cousin. “I would fear your armor will do little to slow her blade, but I know you are far too tenacious to allow her blows to bring you down. She’s no match for your speed and strength, though I worry her skill surpasses your own, do try to avoid being disarmed at your debut. In the end I know your strength of arms will see you to victory. No knight can hope to match you should you take the fight to the ground as she did to sweet Loras.” 

He had the grace at least to drop his voice to a low whisper before replying “So basically let her stab me a few times, don’t drop the sword, then tackle her?”

She pretended not to have heard his whisper and added, in a voice pitched to oh so accidentally carry itself to prying ears. “And Carlos, do take care not to break her.” Yes it was clear Brienne heard her that time, from the fire that lit in the knight's eyes before she jerked her helm into place. Margery had been a precocious child back when Wilas was recovering from his maiming and so, though he hid it well, she knew exactly how much anger pricked pride could stoke. “I think she may have a bright future in my husband’s service.” There, prod and soothe in the same breath. Not that Brienne needed handling, her obvious hopeless fondness for her new King would see to that.

Brienne and Carlos strode into the ring, and the spectators howled at the opportunity to witness the Thorn of High Garden. To see the truth of the legends of the man’s invincibility. Brienne moved first, in a rush of furious steel and was upon Carlos before he could properly set his feet. Her shield crashed into Carlos’ chest with a thunderous crack as the odd armor the boy wore finally shattered. Before the pieces of the boys breastplate hit the ground Brienne had moved to her next strike, a quick blow to Carlos’ head with her flail. The boy managed to shield his face, though with his sword arm and not his shield. This time the sickening crack, barely audible over the crowd, was from bone and not armor breaking. She’d never heard a bone snap quite so clearly, but the crippling blow seemed to do little more than wake her odd brother up. As she’d asked though he somehow kept hold of the blade.

Brienne smoothly stepped past him and aimed another strike, another blow to the back of his head. She was looking to end the fight quickly then, good, it meant stories of his endurance were already circulating. This time however Carlos was ready, his shield caught the blow and he stepped in past Brienne’s guard. Far too close to effectively use his sword. He instead drove his fist into Brienne’s gut, and though he made contact with only the steel of her breastplate the blow still seemed to take the wind from Brienne’s lungs. It was too fast to be sure but Margery would have sworn the blow lifted Brienne half an inch off the ground for a second. Brienne gave ground, stumbling back shield ready to deflect any blow should Carlos press his advantage. He didn’t though, instead he let Brienne regain her footing and breath.

His hand, she noticed, was a ruin. Blood dripped from every knuckle and a few of his fingers were clearly broken. That he was still holding his blade at all was remarkable. He glanced questioningly in Margery’s direction asking for her advice or permission, though she knew not what for. She remembered the grumpy old master of arms bellowing at Loras to trust his instincts when in a fight, to take risks if you saw an opening was the only way to win. She gave a slight nod and held on tight to Renly’s arm unsure what she’d just encouraged.

She didn’t have to wait long to find out, for almost as soon as she inclined her head Carlos tossed his blade aside and his shield followed shortly after. Belatedly she translated his look to mean how much should I show off. Facing an armed knight in full plate barehanded was beyond her imagination, even the heroes of old songs were never so foolish. And here her odd new brother was attempting to do so with a broken arm and a hand that could accurately be described as shattered. Granted both injuries were to the same limb, and his broken arm hadn’t prevented him from hitting Brienne like a mad boar. But it was still the sort of gamble that birthed legends. She just hoped this one would be of victory and not of hubris.

Brienne caught her breath at last, and took Carlos’ disarming as the insult it clearly was, even if Margery knew Carlos had not meant it as such. Brienne closed again a flurry of blows forcing Carlos to give ground until she caught him by surprise, a low blow obscured by her shield until it swept up and smashed into Carlos’ middle, nearly exactly where his fist had caught her. He was folded nearly in half around the blow, but Margery saw that his hands had a solid grip around the chain of the flail. Brienne abandoned the weapon, dropping it as soon as Carlos’ hands closed on the chain. She followed it with a quick shield bash to the boy’s face, staggering him briefly and buying her a breath of time.

Which she used to kneel, grasp the boy’s abandoned sword, and throw herself into a lunge. Credit where it was due her new sibling reacted with blinding speed, somehow intercepting the blade with the palm of both hands. Had he been wearing proper mail and gauntlets that would have been that, as it was though the blade simply slid through his hands on its way to bury itself in Carlos’ chest. Margery held her breath, she had seen first hand how easily Carlos shrugged off injuries, but this was beyond anything she had seen so far. With a grunt Brienne twisted the blade and lifted Carlos off his feet as the blade sunk to the hilt in her enemy’s chest. The boy coughed and flecks of blood escaped his mouth to stain Brienne’s helm.

“Fuck.” He swore with vitriol and far less difficulty than any man with a sword through his chest should have had. “I think you got a lung. Nice aim.” His tone suggested he’d just lost some minor game of cards or Cyvasse.

Brienne’s stance shifted in surprise, and she stepped back withdrawing the blade from the only mildly annoyed Carlos who somehow remained a few inches above the ground, nothing supporting him. A hacking cough wracked the boy and he spat a glob of blood into the dirt. He seemed to remember himself then, and drifted to the ground. “Shit, I wanted to keep the whole flight thing under the table for a little longer.” He fell back into a fighting stance. The crowd was silent, in confusion or horror Margery couldn’t tell, she wasn’t sure they knew themselves either.

Brienne marshaled herself with impressive speed and was ready when Carlos took the offensive. Her stance was solid, but she and Margery were about to learn how little a blade helped when your foe was unconcerned with the threat it posed. Carlos crossed the distance between the two of them in the blink of an eye. Though Brienne managed to catch his first blow on her shield, it still drew a cry of pain from her. Margery hoped the woman’s arm hadn’t broken, Carlos’ surely had.

The brief second her parry bought her was used to counter strike, a cut that caught Carlos in the ribs, and from there the fight was over. Carlos pinned the blade between his arm and ribs, and with a mighty spin tore the blade from Brienne’s grip. When his spin ended in a hammer blow of a kick Brienne was still off balance from the sword being ripped from her grasp. She managed, somehow, to interpose her shield, but the blow hammered her to her knees all the same.

Rather than press his advantage Carlos danced back half a step and was therefore ready when Brienne stormed to her feet now armed with the knife that had so recently forced Loras’ surrender. It did her no good. Here Margery lost track of exactly what happened. Carlos caught the large woman’s wrist, and several small strikes and a twist later, had disarmed Brienne. He threw the blade to the ground and closed once more.

From there the fight was nothing Margery was familiar with. Carlos moved with the practiced ease of Garlan or Loras, as though each blow was something he had practiced a thousand times. But it was a style of combat Margery had never seen practiced, any sensible knight totally disarmed would surely surrender, and so quick that Margery hardly had time to follow the impact of each blow before the next landed. The fight lasted only a few breaths past when Brienne had lost her sword. Carlos was almost methodical in how he disassembled his foe. There were no hammer blows nor wild swings, just jabs and kicks. Small things that seemed to build on each other until Brienne was dropped to one knee and Renly called out “Enough! I give you our champion, my brother by marriage, Carlos Tyrell! The Unbroken Thorn of High Garden!”

Thusly prompted the crowd was torn from their stunned silence into cheers. Carlos offered Brienne a hand up and Margery found herself rushing to their side. She caught a hoarse whisper of “What are you.” Before her arrival drew a stiff and pained bow from Brienne along with a murmur of “Your Grace.”

Margery motioned to one of her husband’s man at arms and said “See that a Maester sees to her injuries. Lady Brienne you fought with grace and skill, you have my word that I shall advance your cause with my husband. I think We should be blessed to count any knight half as fearless among our Kingsguard. I would rest easy knowing Our family had so fierce a protector.”

This won another, more hopeful “Your Grace.” Before Brienne allowed herself to be led off to see a Maester.

Margery smiled serenely and offered her new brother her arm, which he awkwardly took, she led him away from prying eyes and ears. That serene unconcerned expression calming any who noticed Carlos’ honestly horrifying injuries. As soon as she had led her to one of her own pavilions, staffed at all times by picked maids and servants who she held in highest trust, she rounded on him, dropping her fixed smile, and lowering her voice to a whisper. “And you! What the hells were you thinking! Being run through is not a better first showing than being disarmed! And when were you planning to tell us you hovered like a hummingbird! Mother’s Mercy Stannis is camped not a day’s ride from here and you’ve all but destroyed your arms!”

“They’ll get better!” Carlos tried to protest but she was having none of it.

“By tonight? What if Stannis and his Red Witch hear that our Thorn blunted himself by insisting on punching his way through steel plate and decide to attack tonight?”

“Well, no but…”

“But nothing! We’re expecting to give battle tomorrow! And don’t think that the troops won’t notice if you’re missing. There will be an effect on morale if we send them into battle while our much praised legendary warrior takes the day off because faces with a single knight he broke more of his bones showing off than any of them have broken in their whole lives!” Margery felt her eyes stinging, but she refused to weep before she’d had her say. “So we’ll have to send you in anyway! Try and keep you out of harm's way without being seen doing so! How many more men and boys will die because we have to protect our spearhead instead of using it?”

“Enough!” Margery startled at the bellow, not because it was sudden or over loud, but because it was Garlan who gave voice to the shout. Sweet Garlan who had never, as far as she could remember, ever yelled at her. Not even when she had gone through that phase where she was so convinced she could follow her brothers’ footsteps that she had spent weeks following Garlan like his shadow. He crossed the pavilion and spoke more softly. “Margery I understand that you’re worried. It looks like Carlos battered himself into infirmity, but I swear to you, if you hear him out your fears will be greatly lessened.” He folded her into a hug and added “I should have better prepared you for how brutal Carlos is on his body. I advised him to take so much damage that anyone sane would know that he could not fight the next day.”

“You did? But…” she turned from Garlan’s comforting embrace to look at Carlos with fresh eyes. “You never slowed down. You shouldn’t have been able to move your arm, but your punches never weakened or slowed. You don’t just heal quickly and hover, there’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah, my body isn’t really human inside, when I was with the Wards I got an MRI and it showed that my power has changed a lot of my organs. Set them up so that even if a critical part fails another organ can quickly take its place.” Margery wasn’t sure what exactly he meant. He’d mentioned his time as a ward before, though he’d always been confused when she asked what family had taken him in.

“It took the Maesters a while to understand what he was saying too. If you stab his heart then his lungs will make his pulse. Every part of his body has another part ready to step in should the first fail. The Maester found it all very enlightening, said that Carlos could change how we understand our bodies. But for us it means”

“That injuries don’t slow him down. His body works around them.” Margery breathed. “How does the hummingbird impression he pulled fit into all this?”

“I would also like to know.” Garlan said “He never mentioned that in any of our talks.” Most people would have been glaring or accusatory when saying something like that. But for all his size and deadly skill with a blade Garlan was as gentle as the dolls Margery and her mother had played court with.

“It...kind of doesn’t.” Carlos hedged. “It’s not biological like most of my power, no wings or flight bladder or anything of the sort. And it’s a bit more than just hovering. I can fly faster than most people can run, though everyone else in the Bay flew faster. Except Shielder, I suppose.”

“And you never told us about this because…” Margery felt she had a pretty good impression of Grandmother Olena’s famous ‘I’m disappointed this pathetic showing is truly your best effort’ look, and from the way Carlos fidgeted she’d done quite well this time.

“I was honestly worried that there would be mobs with pitchforks and torches. My world hasn’t always reacted well to things we didn’t understand.”

“Hmm, well I wouldn’t go around telling people that you’re ‘not human on the inside,’ Seven Hells knows why you thought that would be a good thing to say. But you’re kind, and we Tyrells look after each other. You needn’t worry about smallfolk coming at you with farming tools and torches.” Margery couldn’t help but smile at the last, the boy had just smashed his way through an armored Knight after all, what did he really have to fear from ill armed smallfolk?

Garlan rumbled approvingly “Yes, you’re family now. And I now know why I could never punish your abysmal footing when we sparred. You don’t actually need it to fight do you?”

“Just...just like that? I basically tell you I’m an alien experiment and your only notes are that I should have told you earlier, and that I cheated at sparring?”

“You swore to be a part of our family.” Garlan said.

“Just because neither of us knew exactly who we were binding ourselves to doesn’t mean you’re not our brother.” Margery added “We look out for our own, it’s the only way always be Growing Strong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably oversold the Tyrell family’s...well good familyness. But we haven’t had a PoV of any of their characters, so canon doesn’t contradict it. Margery repeatedly goes out of her way to tie people to her through love (tommen’s kittens) and acceptance (“should we get my brother?”). Garlan is very kind to Sansa. And Willias actually became a close friend of Oberyn’s after being crippled by him in a joust.
> 
> Aegis’s (aka Carlos) powers are basically all explained in text. Both because the Tyrells tend to cleverness and because Carlos actually trusts the people he’s fallen in with.


End file.
